John trudged up the last few steps to his flat before noticing the door. Slightly ajar, yet he clearly remembered shutting it on his way out for work in the morning. His watch told him it was 3:04pm, and Mary had informed him the night before that she wouldn't be home until late evening. He called out for her anyways. She had been a little more unpredictable and rowdy since his proposal two weeks earlier.
"Mary?" His voice resonated through the walls of the apartment, which Sherlock once shot many times over in a fit of boredom. There was no response, and he carefully slipped through the door. The kitchen was just as he'd left it. The old fridge had been replaced, as John didn't feel safe eating food that had been stored in the same place as various body parts. The microwave was new too, he had once had a nightmare of Sherlock's eyeballs haunting him from the small kitchen appliance. Sherlock's tea set, however, remained polished and unused in the left cupboard. The sight of it used to cause John great pain, but it had eventually passed, along with everything else related to Sherlock. His violin was packed away neatly in John's closet, his knife and skull in the possession of Mrs. Hudson (God knows what she would have done with them). Even the Cluedo board was cleansed from the apartment. John scanned over the living room, suspecting Mrs. Hudson to have visited, but everything was still as disorganized as ever. Mary had tried to clean up the place, but John had consistently made messes everywhere. It reminded him of Sherlock. But Mary had insisted on Spring cleaning after the proposal, and John had decided after three years, he was well past the idea of keeping his flat in the same state Sherlock would have liked it. The death had finally been reduced to a memory, and his new life had kept him happy and busy.
Which is why John froze in shock and nearly fell over when his eyes fell on the familiar dark locks and blazing blue-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
He was sitting there, in his armchair, fingers pressed up along his nose in his typical thinking pose. His was fitted nicely in his eggplant shirt, cuffs buttoned around his wrists. John swivelled around to the door, where Sherlock's long black coat and dark blue scarf hung loosely on the hook. Mary's bright pink raincoat looked out of place, buried under Sherlock's clothing. Turning back slowly to the living room, John waited for the image to disappear from his head.
Delusional. How could this happen? I've been perfectly fine for almost twelve months, and even in the bad moments...never hallucination. Oh dear god, perhaps it was those pills yesterday, those suspicious yellow tablets that were meant for my sinuses. I knew I should have gone with the orang-
"I'm not a hallucination." Sherlock's deep baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. He was unmoving, still staring out into the distance as if he were captivated by some invisible puzzle. John refused to speak back.
Great. So it's affected my hearing too, those bloody meds. Ridiculous, really. And my mind, it's got him right-on, even after three years. Even the pattern of his scarf is the same!
"Actually, it is a new scarf. Same pattern, of course, I couldn't quick sneak the original out from the Morgue. Molly probably kept it, she has a strange fascination for my things."
John didn't move either, eyes fixed on the hallucination of his best friend.
Of course. He can read my thoughts because he's a figm-
"I am not a figment of your imagination." Now he sounded mildly annoyed, as if disappointed by John's conclusion. "Nor am I a ghost," He added, before John could even consider the idea. Finally, he relaxed his hands and turned to observe his doctor. "And I could always read your thoughts, imaginary or not." The piercing gaze caught Watson off guard, and he put his hand down on the kitchen table to prevent himself from toppling over. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and Watson instinctively prepared himself for a long-winded analysis of himself.
"Late night yesterday? Don't worry, that's not the reason I'm here. A cold? Pity, the weather's just starting to warm up. No, the iron isn't broken, that crease was formed from laziness. Wait-no, tired hands. So she's dedicated and thoughtful, but perhaps worn out. She tries so hard to clean up you know, you shouldn't insist on making such a mess. Although I suppose you'll clean it out before the ceremony, so you have a nice clean place to come back to after the honeymoon. No, John, Hawaii is boring, why can't you place somewhere more exotic? Always so predictable. So you'll be going with the typical black suit for the wedding, then? Ah, poor Harriet, still uninvited. At this rate she'll be reduced to a blubbering imbecile by December. Speaking of which, you shouldn't slam the door so hard when Mycroft visits, he just wanted to wish you a happy new year. Hah, who am I kidding? I'm impressed with you, taking such a dislike to dear Mycroft. However, do be careful on those hinges, last time Mrs. Hudson asked for renovation help the thug almost shot her! Oh but you don't quite know about that. Right right, I apologize. By the way, why haven't you taken your shoes off yet? And yes, you paid far too much for those, the store manager is exploiting your entire-"
"Shut up." John's voice was strained, and seemed to resemble more of a growl than human speech. Sherlock paused, then closed his mouth. Cautiously, as if the carpet were lined with explosives, John moved into the living room and allowed himself to fall into his chair, staring at the man who rose from his grave. Sherlock's eyes followed his limp, and flickered across his body to list a thousand more facts about his friend since he had jumped off St. Bartholomew's hospital three years ago. There was a brief hesitation before he raised his eyes to see the blank stare of John Watson. It worried him a little, he was expecting a punch in the face, or perhaps being tackled into the telly. Instead, a silence stretched out between them which seemed to last longer than the days he'd been away. At last, John spoke.
"You're dead." It wasn't a question, a threat, or an accusation. There was no spite or doubt behind his voice. It was a statement, and a frown flitted briefly across Sherlock's face. It was an odd feeling, being demanded dead. Seeing it on a file from Molly was very different from hearing John say it to his face.
"Am I really?" Sherlock's voice was dry. John did not respond, unable to bring himself to accept the fact that he had missed that rumbling deep voice more than any other sound in the world. His memory was hurting him terribly, and his thoughts wandered back to the various medications he had taken in the past week. Sherlock sighed, "You're not drugged. Just believe yourself, for god's sake." John's face suddenly crumpled, as if his great wall had been broken down by a couple words. Sherlock leaned back instinctively. John raised his chin in a small act of defiance, and his fingers started to tremble.
"No, Sherlock, you're dead. I saw your bloody head smashed open on concrete, three years ago. Remember? You stood on that roof, and called me, and told me you were a bloody fraud. You said you researched me, and you said good bye, and Jesus Christ, you threw yourself off that building and died!" His breath was now ragged, and his eyes were wet. Sherlock waited for him to calm down.
"I realize this is all very hard to explain, especially to your stressed mind. But I assure you, John, that I am not dead. In fact, I am very much alive," Sherlock paused for a moment, giving an oh-so-rare apologetic grin before commenting cheekily, "Just sitting here and wishing for a cup of tea." The last comment was unnecessary, but John gladly took it as an excuse to look away from those sharp cheekbones and pointed nose. He shuffled into the kitchen once again and pulled the cupboard open a little harder than necessary. The interaction between the two was even more irregular than usual. John barely felt the need to say anything, still firm in his belief that he was hallucinating. The teacups clinked against each other as he roughly set it down on the counter, and Sherlock frowned. John kept the tea set which he had shared with Moriarty. A lovely tea set, but surely he did not know about past usage. Sherlock watched with concern as a teacup fell over; he was still quite found of that particular china.
"I'm making tea for my hallucination," John drawled, jerking slightly as he started the kettle. A sharp laugh escaped his throat, entirely humourless. "Ridiculous, it really is." Sherlock stared at John's back in silence, listening carefully to his drabble. "I saw you, I really did." His voice was strained once again, as if they words were being forced out into the air. "I took your pulse, you were still warm. They pulled me away, I told them-told them you were my friend." His hands were shaking as he found the right teabags in the drawer. Mary disliked tea, so he never had to worry about missing teabags. "The paramedics took you away. Your eyes were still open, as blank as the sky you were staring at." The kettle whistled and whined, the water threatening to bubble over. "They took me away. And all I could hear was the echo of your damned voice, your last note." He spat the word out, as if it had tainted his mouth. Sherlock remembered the moment clearly. His mind had been racing with the calculations of the jump, simultaneously worrying over John's location. But when his friend screamed his name, and he threw away that phone-his last lifeline, it was as if the entire world reoriented around him. The sorrow and sentiment he was implanting into John's mind, the effect it would have on the both of them! It flooded his head, and he almost toppled over. Sherlock Holmes was never scared of death. There, in that moment, he had been scared of living. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to clear his thoughts, and envisioned the gunman waiting to shoot down the valiant army doctor. The thug smiling sweetly at poor Mrs. Hudson. The killer sitting a couple desks away from the noble detective inspector. Falling was barely a decision, and he could hear the wind whistling in his ears as he plummeted.
Don't worry, John. He didn't have to see the cyclist to know that John had just been roughly knocked into the ground, a much harder fall than his drop into the large truck of garbage bags. Diving out onto the sidewalk slick with his blood, he caught a flash of Molly running back into the Hospital just before his hired crowd surrounded him, perfecting the scene as John struggled to stand.